.

Of all this Justine was thinking as she drove down Fifth Avenue one
January afternoon to meet her husband at the Grand Central station. She
had tamed her happiness at last: the quality of fear had left it, and it
nestled in her heart like some wild creature subdued to human ways.
And, as her inward bliss became more and more a quiet habit of the mind,
the longing to help and minister returned, absorbing her more deeply in
her husband's work.

She dismissed the carriage at the station, and when his train had
arrived they emerged together into the cold winter twilight and turned
up Madison Avenue. These walks home from the station gave them a little
more time to themselves than if they had driven; and there was always so
much to tell on both sides. This time the news was all good: the work at
Westmore was prospering, and on Justine's side there was a more cheerful
report of Mr. Langhope's health, and--best of all--his promise to give
them Cicely for the summer. Amherst and Justine were both anxious that
the child should spend more time at Hanaford, that her young
associations should begin to gather about Westmore; and Justine exulted
in the fact that the suggestion had come from Mr. Langhope himself,
while she and Amherst were still planning how to lead him up to it.

They reached the house while this triumph was still engaging them; and
in the doorway Amherst turned to her with a smile.

"And of course--dear man!--he believes the idea is all his. There's
nothing you can't make people believe, you little Jesuit!"

"I don't think there is!" she boasted, falling gaily into his tone; and
then, as the door opened, and she entered the hall, her eyes fell on a
blotted envelope which lay among the letters on the table.

The parlour-maid proffered it with a word of explanation. "A gentleman
left it for you, madam; he asked to see you, and said he'd call for the
answer in a day or two."

"Another begging letter, I suppose," said Amherst, turning into the
drawing-room, where Mr. Langhope and Cicely awaited them; and Justine,
carelessly pushing the envelope into her muff, murmured "I suppose so"
as she followed him.

XXXIII

OVER the tea-table Justine forgot the note in her muff; but when she
went upstairs to dress it fell to the floor, and she picked it up and
laid it on her dressing-table.

She had already recognized the hand as Wyant's, for it was not the first
letter she had received from him.

Three tim